


Of Course

by AffableAckles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotions, Everyone is Okay in The End, First Kiss, Helpful Mycroft, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Questioning Love, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is Okay, Sherlock is missing, Worried John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 12:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12036147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AffableAckles/pseuds/AffableAckles
Summary: Sherlock goes missing. It's up to John to find him and keep him out of danger. But was Sherlock really in danger in the first place?





	Of Course

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John stepped into the living room of 221B Baker Street, holding his phone in his hand. "Lestrade's just called. You weren't answering your phone."  
"Hm." Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes closed. He was lying upon the couch, facing the windows, his hands in his usual position, steepled under his chin. Sleeves rolled up to elbows, curly hair splayed across one of the embroidered pillows. His phone, rather unsurprisingly, was sat upon newspapers and file on the coffee table, unstraightened to the point where Mycroft would not have been amused.  
  
"He's called about a case." John said, taking a few more steps towards his flatmate, just so he was hovering a few feet from the man's head.  
"Yes, obviously." The man below him voiced, uninterested. His eyes were still closed.  
"Something about a body being found, somewhere in Trevone. That's over in-"  
"I know where it is, John." Sherlock interrupted. "And, I have no interest in anything over in Cornwall." He sighed, arching his back slightly to relieve the tension building up in his muscles. John raised his eyebrows, turning on his phone.  
"Actually, you might." He lowered his hand, closer to Sherlock, waiting for the man to take the phone. He waited for a few seconds, before sighing in his own turn, turning the device off and pocketing it. After a few seconds of silence, John began informing the detective of the new case that seemed to have Scotland Yard troubled.  
"A woman was found, along the shoreline of Trevone Bay. With," he paused, playing with the volume buttons on his phone in his jacket pocket, "her head cut off. No other wounds on her body."  
"And?"  
"And what?" John asked, looking down at Sherlock. His eyes popped open, staring somewhere past John's face. He lowered his hands, leaving them to rest upon his stomach.  
"Lestrade wouldn't have tried to contact me if it was a decapitation that killed her. I presume there wasn't any blood at the scene of the crime?" He asked, his eyes closing once more. John shook his head, before realising that Sherlock's eyes were closed.  
"No. There wasn't."  
"Yes, thought so. Have they run an autopsy?"  
"Not yet. The body is still on the beach." Sherlock let out a small chuckle.  
"Tell Lestrade that I won't accept." He said plainly. He brought his hands back up under his chin. He let out a large sigh. John frowned, taking that as his cue to leave the detective.  
  
As he left the living room, he rolled his eyes. Although Sherlock was without a case, he was being too stubborn to accept one being offered to him. He walked up the stairs, settling into his bedroom to change out of his work clothes and into one of his trusty jumpers he wore almost daily. Just as he removed his shirt, his phone began to ring. With a sigh, he sat upon the covers of his bed, still shirtless, answering his phone without reading the name.  
"He won't take it, Greg." John said, rubbing his forehead. He'd been under a lot of stress lately.  
"Yeah, well, I guess I should have seen that coming. What'd he say?" Lestrade replied on the other end.  
"Not much. He seemed to be deterred by the fact that they hadn't run an autopsy. Not even a blood sample was taken?"  
"Afraid not. Trevone isn't a large village, there hadn't been enough experts to run anything in the immediate area." Lestrade told him. There was a quiet shuffling on Lestrade's end, and John presumed that he was looking through a few files about the case on hand. John heard Lestrade sigh. "Well, I'll call you if anything else turns up about the case."  
"Alright. Talk to you later." He removed the phone from his ear, hanging up on Lestrade. He quickly put on one of his jumpers, favoring to the cream-colored one he wore more than the others. Albeit, he didn't really own any other ones.  
  
He treaded downstairs, walking into the kitchen to prepare a cuppa for himself. He'd make one for Sherlock if the man asked, but didn't stretch any extra just 'cause he wanted to feel nice. No, today wasn't that day.  
He stood in front of the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to heat up, staring into nothingness. The day was almost over, he'd arrived home late. Sarah had asked him to take an extra shift on her behalf, she was going on a date with another man. As if John would have been jealous, he really wasn't. She was the one who called their relationship off, anyway.  
  
He was startled out of his thoughts by the low whistling of the kettle. He turned it off before pouring the steaming water into a mup, dropping a tea bag into the beige cup. He walked into the living room, leaving the extra water in the kettle in case Sherlock wanted a cuppa before bed. Sitting in his armchair, he turned slightly to face Sherlock, who was still on the couch. He cleared his throat, setting the cup on his side table.  
  
"Lestrade said he'll call back if anything new comes up with the case. Still not-" he broke off on his sentence, leaning forward in his chair. "Sherlock?" He asked, but wasn't met with a reply. The younger man's eyes were still closed, but his shoulders were slouched. He was softly snoring, mouth slightly hung open. Asleep. The lull between cases, the worn off adrenalin, had finally caught up to the detective and he had fallen asleep. John chuckled lightly, wary to not wake up his flatmate.  
  
Once he had finished his tea, he set the mug in the sink, face down, before heading back into the living room to turn off the lights. Before he left to go upstairs, he draped a blanket over his sleeping friend, staring down fondly at him. He brushed away a few curls from his face, but recoiled quickly after he'd realized what he had done. Did he just brush away Sherlock's hair? He shook his head at his own actions before retreating upstairs to call it a night.  
  
=  
  
Sherlock woke with a start. His eyes popped open, gazing around curiously. Had he fallen asleep? He fingered the blanket that was sprawled across his body, not remembering putting it over himself. John. Obviously. He sat up, wincing slightly; his neck hurt. He rubbed it gently, trying to work out the knots and muscles carefully. He let out a small yawn, standing up and heading to the kitchen. He spotted a mug balancing precariously on the edge of the table due to the clutter of experiments Sherlock hadn't bothered to do anything about yet. He was currently out of experiments that seemed interesting to him. They all seemed to be too boring.  
  
Once he deemed the cup clean and usable, he headed over to the kettle to find water already waiting inside. He poured it into the sink, filling the kettle with fresh water before turning it on.  
  
Once his tea was brewed and properly steeped to his liking, He picked up the cup, walking over to his favoured armchair. Sitting down, sipping his tea, he stared into nothingness, enjoying the calm environment around him. Something which he rarely did. Enjoy something so calm, something that he would most definitely deem as boring. The night was still upon him, which meant, he had a small chance of catching the sun as it rose. Not that he'd be able to see it rise, living in central London. He stole a glance at his watch, three fourty-two. He still had time to see the sun rise if he left quick enough.  
  
Leaving his half finished tea on the side table, he rose, grabbing his belstaff off the hook on the back of the door. He was still in his clothing from the day before, so he needn't worry about changing. Grabbing his navy scarf as well, he tied it around his neck before heading out their flat door. He pulled his phone out of his pocket as he headed down the stairs,and he pulled up the train schedule. Perfect. His train left in nine minutes, and given the five minute walk to the station, he knew he had enough time. He walked out the door of 221B, heading across the road for the short walk to Euston Station.  
  
As he walked underneath the streetlamps, his shadow casting on the pavement below him, he continued to tap away on his phone, estimating the time it would take to get to his location and the general time of the sunrise. He'd have roughly twenty minutes once he'd arrive, giving him enough time to make his way to the shoreline to watch the sunrise. The one thing he had honestly been yearning to watch for years. He'd seen plenty of sunsets, enough that he'd deleted a few for extra room in his mind palace. But sunrises, no, he hadn't any memories of those.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was a strange man, though anyone could tell just by the fact alone that he wears a coat and scarf in the middle of August. He knew it aswell. He was different, in a way that he wished for all humans he'd ever encountered to be. Those who were boring stayed boring, those who were too predictable stayed too predictable. But for a man like him to travel across England just to watch the sunrise, he wondered where exactly he stood. Surely he was the same, because doesn't everyone need a sense of calming in their lives? He knew that his sense would be the rising and setting of the sun, strange though that may be for a man of his standard. Yet, he didn't care for those who thought of him weirdly just because he liked to watch the sun upon the horizon. He was sure others found that pleasure as well, it surely wasn't just him. Although, the thought of having a found pleasure of something so strange and common with other people made him frown. Maybe he was too emotional, too normal, just as his brother used to say.  
  
He'd arrived at the station, with three minutes left to board the train. He didn't rush, he knew there was no reason to. Once he was granted upon the platform, the train was there and waiting. He stepped on just as the doors began to close, picking a seat just off at the end of the compartment. There were a few other passengers near him. He quickly deduced them all before proclaiming them all to be boring and turning his attention away from them.  
He noted that his phone battery was less than three quarters depleted, he'd have to use it all wisely. He hadn't thought of bringing a charging cord along with him, but he supposed that he'd be able to make it through the day without it. With nothing to do for ninety minutes, he rested his head back on the window, closing his eyes and entering his mind palace to occupy him.  
  
=  
  
John woke up in a frenzy. He shot up, breathing heavily. Another nightmare. He hadn't had one in a few weeks, he was doing well. But with Mary's death, they never really went away.  
He wiped his brow shakily, coating the back of his hand with sweat. The shaking in his hand had unsurprisingly returned, it always did with the nightmares. With his body still shaking, he lie back down, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes still blurred with sleep. He slowly began to regain control of his breathing, after many years of practice each night. He knew better than to try to fall back asleep; he'd just be haunted with the same dream, same nightmare again.  
  
After ten minutes of staring up at the ceiling, he pushed the covers off of him slowly. A nice cup of water would help him. Nothing hot, that never seemed to help. Maybe a glass of water with a few cubes of ice. He walked downstairs towards the kitchen, slowly and carefully, skipping the step that always creaked the loudest. He didn't want to be on the bad side of Sherlock if he woke him up. The detective always got angry with John when he let him fall asleep. He grabbed a glass cup from one of the cupboards, filling it up with water. He dropped a few cubes of ice into the glass, making his way to the living room. The room was still dark, save for the sunlight that shone through the window and into the flat. He turned to the sofa, startled slightly to see that Sherlock wasn't there. He took a second glance at Sherlock's chair to make sure the man wasn't just in front of him. He wasn't.  
  
Turning to Sherlock's bedroom, he found the door open. Now, Sherlock never left his door open when he was inside it, not ever. As tired as he might have been, he would have made sure the door was closed. Hell, he would have closed it even if he had a serious injury that left him unable to move towards the door. With his brows furrowed, John walked over to his flatmate's bedroom, unsurprised to find it empty. So, he left the flat. Brilliant deduction, Watson. With a sigh, he left the now empty glass on the counter, returning upstairs to retrieve his phone off the table beside his bed. He opened his phone, going to his text messages and clicking on Sherlock's name. The last time he had texted the detective was three days ago when he asked John to pick up something from Tesco's on the way home, and he had agreed.  
  
Where did you go? Did Lestrade call you for a new case? Surely not the one in Trevone, that's too far away. - JW  
  
He sat on his bed, waiting for Sherlock to reply. The man never went without replying in a matter of minutes. He frowned when his messages automatically signed the JW for him, he remembered turning it off. Sherlock must've changed it the last time he got his hands on his phone. Five minutes passed, and John sent him another text.  
  
Sherlock? Where are you? - JW  
  
No reply. He waited another five minutes, then another, before sending him another text.  
  
Sherlock, are you alright? Why do you always run off without me. I thought we had talked about this. - JW  
  
Eight minutes. Now he began to worry. He checked the time, it was seven thirty in the morning. Sherlock never left John without replying. Was he in danger? He pulled up his contacts list, clicking on the detective's name. It went straight to his voicemail.  
"Damn Sherlock, where the hell are you?" He muttered, bringing up Lestrade's number and phoning him. It rang a few times, and John worried that he was in danger too, until the phone on the other end answered.  
  
"John?"  
"Yeah. Hey, have you heard anything of Sherlock this morning? He's left the flat and he's not answering his phone."  
"No, not a thing, I'm afraid." Lestrade answered. John heard him shifting on the other end, before it went silent again.  
"Hm. He always answers his phone, so I thought he was with you busy on a case."  
"No. I've been here all morning, and he hasn't shown up." He said. John frowned. Why wasn't he answering his phone? Where was he? Greg must've sensed his worry on the other end, because he let out a small sigh. "Don't worry, John. He probably just went out for a while. Maybe he found a case online and left without telling you."  
"That would make sense, but he isn't answering his phone. And he always answers, no matter what."  
"Look, don't worry about him. He's perfectly capable of caring for himself, John. He'll be fine."  
"Yeah, yeah." But John wasn't convinced. When Sherlock went silent, it wasn't because he wanted to.  
  
"Just give it a few hours, maybe a day. He'll turn up."  
"Yeah. Thanks, Greg."  
"Yeah, talk to you soon." He hung up. John lowered his phone, releasing a small sigh. He rubbed his face, hoping that Sherlock would return so he could strangle him for leaving. Yet, he knew Lestrade had a point. He didn't need to worry over Sherlock so much. He wasn't his mother. He fingered the volume buttons on his phone once again, a slight nervous tremor going through his hand.  
  
=  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes when the train stopped. He had arrived, and just on schedule. He exited the train, leaving the station calmly. He checked his watch, he still had twenty minutes until the sun was to rise. The day was still dark, just the smallest hint of light breaching the sky. As he walked out to the road, he looked down the street. On the left, a taxi was slowly making it's way down the road. Sherlock smirked to himself, before lifting his arm to flag the cab over. The cabbie took notice of him and pulled over. Sherlock got in, checking his watch.  
  
"Gunner's Park." He told him. The cabbie pulled away from the side of the road, and headed off to Sherlock's location. Sherlock took out his phone, clicking away the notification he got.  
  
Low Battery  
10% of battery remaining  
  
He fiddled around on his phone, going through old cases he had saved on his phone. He'd rather the more interesting cases he'd saved on his laptop, but he had nothing else to do while the cab slowly made it's way towards the park. He rolled his eyes when the cabbie took the six minute route rather than the four minute.  
  
He turned off his phone, leaving it at 4% when they arrived. He left the vehicle, paid the cabbie, telling him to keep the extra two pounds he had given him. He headed toward the park, taking the trail toward the water. The sky was a bit brighter now, but he still had just under an hour until the sun itself rose from below the horizon. He wanted to take a picture, so he could possibly show John, but he was sure John would have found it childish. Still yet, he pulled out his phone to capture the dark sky that was becoming brighter with each minute. He had 3% when he turned it off. He'd capture a few more photos before it died.  
  
He stood in the small strip of sand that ran along the shore, burying his hands in the pockets of his jacket, keeping them warm against the cold breeze that came with the ocean. He took a deep breath. Despite his cold persona, this particular morning made him happy. Elated, even. Seeing something he had wished to see ever since he was a child, unable to without being judged by his family for 'wishing to see the sunrise'. For simply being childish. Now, no one was there to judge him, to tell him off, to scold him, to make his small, simple wish break. Not this time.  
  
The sun began to rise. He could see it, now. He smiled to himself. He snapped a few pictures, saving them into his album when his screen went black. His phone had died, and he frowned. He pocketed it, screen facing inwards, towards his stomach. He sat down in the grass, bringing his knees up to his chest, locking his arms around them. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, reveling in the golden glow of the sun.  
  
=  
  
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"  
He turned to face the voice of his brother, whose breath was laboured. He was carrying a torch, flashing the bright beam in his brother's eyes. Sherlock closed them tightly, blinking rapidly once the light left his face. He looked up at his brother, who stood sternly. Sherlock stood in front of him, reaching his full height, crossing his arms over his chest.  
"The torch was mean, Myc." He replied, frowning.  
"That wasn't answering my question, Sherlock. What are you doing up here at five in the morning?" Mycroft asked, giving him a you-better-answer type of look. Sherlock rolled his eyes before plopping back down on the grass.  
  
"I came up here to watch the sunrise. Isn't it obvious?" He said, focusing his attention on the horizon. He and Mycroft were on one of the tallest mountains in the area, just a twenty minute walk from where their house resides.  
"The sunrise? Why on earth would you care for that?" Mycroft sat down beside his little brother, facing him with a disapproving frown.  
"Does everything always need a reason? Can't I just watch something without being patronized by my older brother?" The young boy said, fiddling with the small bee plushie he brought with him.  
"Sherlock, it's childish."  
"Well, luckily I am a child." He said, looking up at Mycroft. "A seven year old is still a child." He faced the horizon again. "Besides, watching the sun rise isn't childish. Why are you here, anyway?"  
"Leaving the house at four thirty in the morning, alone, and wandering off isn't okay. You're smarter than that, Sherlock."  
"I know, but I knew I wouldn't be allowed if I were to ask for permission."  
"Therefore, you shouldn't have left in the first place." Sherlock sighed. Why did it matter, what he did?  
  
"Please, Myc. Can we just stay and watch it?" His brother shook his head.  
"No. Mummy will be worried sick when she sees that both her son's beds are empty. Come along, now, Sher." Mycroft stood, holding out his hand.  
"No, Myc!" Sherlock whined, hugging his bee closer to him.  
"Sherlock, now." Mycroft glowered down at him, waiting. Sherlock bowed his head, standing up slowly. Mycroft took his hand, leading him away. Sherlock turned his head as they descended the hill, not paying attention and tripping. He landed on the ground with a small thud and a whimper. Mycroft frowned, picking up his younger brother, holding him against his hip. "See? You're too tired to be up this early. You would've fallen asleep, and no one would know where you were."  
"I'm not tired." Sherlock pouted. But seconds later, he stifled a yawn. Mycroft smirked, raising his brother up higher so he could rest his head on his shoulder. Sherlock did so, frowning, turning his head once again to look at the sky, as the darkness began to dissipate into a golden light.  
  
=  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes. He had relived that memory from over twenty five years ago. He sighed, remembering Mycroft's little rant that he gave himself during the walk back. Mycroft promised to keep the whole debacle from Mummy, but only as a favour. He was almost out of favours, now.  
  
The sun had risen further in the sky, and Sherlock basked in the now warm air surrounding him. He sat there for a few more hours, until the day had now started, and people were beginning to leave their houses. He checked his watch, it was now eleven thirty. He hadn't moved from his position, and he realized that his arms and legs were aching from remaining in a tight position for hours. He removed his arms, stretching out his legs until his feet hit the sand. He didn't know what he'd do with the rest of the day. Would he return home, back to Baker Street, or would he stay here, get a hotel room, and leave in the morning? He'd leave tomorrow, he decided. But, maybe he'd just stay near the water for a bit longer.  
  
=  
  
Two hours. John was surely panicking now. He had texted Sherlock numerous times, and called him eight times in the past six hours.  
  
Sherlock, answer me, goddammit. - JW  
  
Sherlock, please, just text me back, tell me where you are. - JW  
  
Sherlock, seriously. Stop being childish! - JW  
  
Is it because I let you sleep last night? You really do need it, you know. If it matters any, I'm sorry. - JW  
  
Sherlock, are you ok? Please text me back. - JW  
  
Sherlock Holmes! - JW  
  
Please, Sherlock, I'm worried. Really worried. Please! - JW  
  
Sherlock! - JW  
  
John was angry. Angry that his bastard of his friend wasn't answering, wasn't replying. Not even reading his messages. He passed off the fact that his phone died long ago. Sherlock never went anywhere without a full battery. He was worried. Worried that something bad had happened to Sherlock, that he was captured and was now across the country, maybe even across the world. He ran his hand through his already tousled hair, he had been continuously running his hands through his hair for the past hour, another nervous habit of his. Another phone call gone straight to voicemail. Another text message.  
  
Please, don't be dead, Sherlock. Please. - JW  
  
John rose from his chair. He had enough waiting. He phoned up Mycroft, impatiently waiting as he got through his security. The call finally got through to Mycroft, who greeted him in the polite way only Mycroft can manage.  
  
"Doctor Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?"  
"Yeah, hey. Listen, Sherlock's gone missing." John went straight to the point, not leaving any time to waste. He heard a little chuckle from the other end.  
"Missing? As in he left the flat without you knowing?"  
"Precisely. He isn't answering his phone, and I can't track it."  
"Doctor Watson, has it ever occurred to you that his phone may be dead?" Mycroft pressed.  
"Of course, but Sherlock never leaves the flat without his phone being fully charged. He depends half of his life on that thing."  
"Maybe he left in a rush." Mycroft said, sitting back in his chair. John's patience was wearing thin.  
"Or maybe he was taken! Has that occurred to you?" John yelled, running his hand through his hair again. He heard a low sigh from Sherlock's brother.  
"John, I can assure you that he is fine."  
"Oh really? How?" Mycroft sighed again. "Please, just try to figure out where he is." He hung up before Mycroft could reply. He rubbed his face with his hand, sighing. Where is he? He only hoped he was okay. It were times like these when he worried, really worried, about the consulting detective. Because it was only a short amount of time before someone who hated Sherlock, who wanted revenge for sending them to prison, or ruining there lives in some other god forsaken way, to find him and kill him. Or torture him, or assault him.. He couldn't let his mind travel in that direction. He had to be strong, not weak. Not for Sherlock, who for all he knew, could be in grave danger. He had to make sure the man he loved was- no, he didn't love him. He didn't.  
  
It was two hours later, when he received a phone call from Mycroft.  
"God, have you found him?" John asked frantically, the moment he answered the phone. The two hours of not knowing made him go practically insane. Who was he to Sherlock if he couldn't even help him?  
  
"We've tracked him down, to a town not far from here. I've already sent a car in his direction-"  
"No!" John interrupted, "Bring me along. You might need a doctor, and I'm a pretty damn qualified one."  
"John, I don't believe-"  
"Shut up and send that bloody car over. Now." He ordered, in a voice much like his Captain Watson one. Mycroft took a few seconds before complying.  
"Two minutes." Mycroft hung up. John, sighed in relief, hastily throwing on his coat and grabbing the first aid kit he kept in one of the empty cupboards. He ran down the stairs, past Mrs. Hudson who ran out of her flat in a frenzy due to the loud footsteps. She yelled after him but he ignored it, rushing out of 221B and onto the sidewalk. He waited forty-eight seconds before the black Mercedes pulled up. He hopped into the car, sitting up stiffly, not willing himself to relax. His hands were sweating, and he constantly wiped them on his jeans. He didn't know if he was ready to face Sherlock, whatever state he would be in. But he knew he had to be strong. Doctor Watson, today.  
  
The car ride was silent. John was less worried, now that they knew where the detective was, but they didn't know what state he was in. Which, still helped peak is worry. He received a few text messages from Mycroft about their progress, and something that was totally un-Mycroft like, it almost scared John. He was sending him reassuring words.  
  
Don't worry. I assure you he will be fine.  
Mycroft Holmes.  
  
You needn't panic, Doctor Watson.  
Mycroft Holmes.  
  
They were an hour into the car ride. John recognized the road they were on. The A13. So, they undoubtedly were headed to Southend-on-Sea. Why in hell was Sherlock out here? John watched as the scenery flew by beside them, anxious to find Sherlock. It was five-thirty now. He didn't understand why he put contacting Mycroft off for six hours. Six hours! He hit his head on the back of the seat forcefully. He was a bloody idiot. Why didn't he contact the man who is practically the British Government himself?  
  
Another half hour. They reached their destination. They were in the middle of Shoeburyness. Unfortunately Mycroft had only been able to find him in the town, and didn't have a direct location as to where he was. So, John and the two men who accompanied him on the journey there split up. John looked through town, asking around if they had seen a man of distinct height, dark curly hair, a long coat and blue scarf. He had no positive responses.  
For all they knew, Sherlock could be out of town and in any random place at the moment. But, John stuck to Shoeburyness, not content until they searched the entire town.  
John switched to looking closer to the shoreline. If anyone had to hide a body, it would be on the beach.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes, I better find you alive, you arsehole." John muttered to himself. He wandered around, his eyes flicking left and right, behind him and in front again. He looked for signs of blood, signs of struggle, anything that could lead him to his flatmate. His friend. His-  
  
No, he wasn't ready to think about that. Sherlock was married to his work, he knew it. The whole time he had been worried about finding Sherlock, and not about the fact that he would be left with nothing if he lost him again. He- he loved him, too much to lose him.  
He had admitted it to himself. Yes, he loved Sherlock. Every insufferable, arrogant, cold, beautiful part of his being. He loved him goddammit, no matter what he said about 'not being gay'. He hadn't allowed himself to think like that before. Before he realized that Sherlock's life could be in danger. All the discreet glances at Sherlock, the awe he found himself in with almost everything he did. Despite the situation at hand, John laughed. He laughed. He loved Sherlock bloody Holmes since the day he met him, after the brilliant deduction in the lab, the thrilling chase after the cab, the limp he had obtained vanished in under forty-eight hours of knowing that man.  
  
"Yes, I bloody love you, Sherlock Holmes." He said outloud. Once, twice, three times,  
"I love you, I love you, I love you."  
He was ready to shout it out loud if he needed to. Shout it to the whole world, at the top of his very lungs, until he screamed himself hoarse. Maybe Sherlock would hear him then, dead or alive. Alive. He needed to be, didn't he? The great Sherlock Holmes isn't allowed to be dead, the tabloids would be all over him, questioning everything that was ever said about the great consulting detective. Was he really dead? Or was it another fake? Who really is Sherlock Holmes? The great pit of worry was back. Sherlock Holmes is dead, he's dead and he's not coming back, all because John couldn't save him, couldn't come to his aid in time, couldn't be the friend he was, the lover he wanted to be, the boyfriend he aimed for.  
  
And yet, the small figure of something-someone, lying on their side, legs pressed closely to their chest, long arms wrapped around tightly, caught his eyes. It was him. His Sherlock, lying in the sand, legs pressed to his chest, long arms wrapped around them tightly.  
John nearly collapsed in relief.  
  
"Sherlock!" He yelled, hoping to get the man's attention, hoping that he was alive. He ran over to the detective, bending down at his side. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" He shook the man's shoulder, startling him awake. He blinked before looking up at John, confused. Why was he here? "Oh, god! Are you alright? Why are you here? What happened?" He fired off questions rapidly, before throwing himself onto Sherlock. Sherlock made a tiny noise of surprise, taken aback by the sudden tight embrace he was in. John squeezed him tightly, burying his face into Sherlock's soft curls, holding him close. Sherlock all but laid still, clearing his throat to gain John's attention. He suddenly let go, moving away from Sherlock, a dark red creeping up his neck and his cheeks. "Sorry." He whispered. "Are you okay?" John asked, slowly, this time. Sherlock nodded, sitting up straight.  
  
"Why wouldn't I be? Why are you here, anyway?"  
"I came to find you, you berk! You weren't replying to any of my texts, or answering your bloody phone!" John replied, moving away to give some more room to Sherlock.  
"Oh." Sherlock fished his phone out of his pocket. "Phone died." John frowned. Slowly, he was becoming angry, again.  
"And why the hell were you out here?" He raised his voice.  
"Well, It's quite childish, really. I'm not-"  
"I don't care if it's childish or not, Sherlock. Tell me why the bloody hell you are all the way over here." John said forcefully, awaiting an answer. A bloody good one.  
"Well, it was something I've wanted to do ever since I was a child, but I never got the chance."  
John waited for him to continue, ears becoming red with anger. "I wanted to see the sunrise." Sherlock confessed nonchalantly. John leaned backwards.  
"You wanted to see the bloody sunrise." John said, through gritted teeth.  
"Yes. Now, I believe there is a nice hotel in the area-"  
"You wanted to watch the goddamn sunrise?" John yelled, causing Sherlock look back into his eyes.  
"Yes, didn't I already say that?" Sherlock asked snarkily. He rose from the ground, stretching his sore muscles.  
"You left without telling me, made no issue to try to contact me, leaving me to worry that you were taken, and otherwise dead!"  
"Oh please. Do you really think I'd be that careless? You needn't worry about me, John. Didn't Graham and Mycroft tell you that already today?" John was practically fuming. He clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the strong urge to place his hands on his friends throat. He was glaring daggers at Sherlock, that bit was obvious. But Sherlock didn't so much as flinch. Sherlock Holmes didn't do that, he didn't need to.  
  
"You.. utter.." He trailed off, turning his back on Sherlock to pace around in the sand. "You had me worried half to death!" He yelled, pointing an antagonizing finger at Sherlock. "I thought you were dead for hours!"  
"John, I don't see-"  
"No, shut up." John interrupted once again, stepping closer to Sherlock. "Just shut up." He looked up at him, into his eyes. "Why the hell would you do that to me?"  
"I already told you." Sherlock said, looking down at John. "I mean, to an added point, I never knew you cared so-" He broke off with a yelp. John had thrown him over his shoulder, a vice-like grip around his legs and waist. He writhed around, trying his best to break out of his grip. "John! The hell are you doing? Put me do- No, no. Don't you dare-" But it was too late. He was submerged under the freezing water, held under for no more than five seconds before being let go. He came up, coughing and spluttering, staring at John with angry wide eyes. John returned the look. "The hell is wrong with you?" Sherlock shouted. John frowned.  
  
"I could ask you the same question." In a fury of anger, -or mock anger, at least,- Sherlock surged towards John, trying to push him under the water. His actions were made difficult due to the heavy water weighing down on his coat. John wrestled back, trying his best to push Sherlock away from him and back into the water. It was his turn to let out something along the lines of a quiet yelp, when Sherlock kicked out his leg, -mindfully his good one, he didn't want to return with a pissed off and hurt John who would likely asphyxiate him at any given moment- thus throwing him into the water, just as cold as it was for Sherlock. He rose from the water, grabbing Sherlock's legs and pulling them forward, using his free hand to shove his chest powerfully. Sherlock once again fell, rising back up with a hand on his chest. His face was grimaced with pain, and John immediately stopped his actions of trying to shove him under the water. He was confused, how in hell was Sherlock hurt? His eyes trailed over Sherlock's hand, when he realized, John had pushed -quite painfully, too- on Sherlock's bullet wound. He himself knew the after effects that came with wounds, with the cold air, the freezing water, it had made his own wound hurt years before.  
  
Sherlock was doubled over, breathing somewhat heavily, his face still written up with pain. John stood to his full height, wading towards Sherlock.  
"Oh god, Sher- Are you okay?" John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pushing his upper half backward a bit so he could see his face. But he wasn't met with a painful grimace, no, more like a devious smile. Sherlock took John unawares and thrusted his arms forward, shoving the older man under the water. By the time John rose, seething, Sherlock had already made a break towards the shore. "You bastard!" John yelled after him, wading through the water towards him. He managed to catch up with the man in the heavy water ridden coat, grabbing onto the back of his jacket, turning him around.  
  
"Unhand me, John!" Sherlock said, unmindful of the small gap between them. John noticed, and he looked down between them. He was really close to Sherlock.  
Just as Sherlock began stepping backwards, John looked up, grabbing a large fistful of Sherlock's coat. He stumbled with the effort as Sherlock backed away, ungracefully tripping on a piece of driftwood, causing Sherlock to fall backwards, and John to land on top of him. There faces were mere inches away from each other. John just stared. Stared at Sherlock, at his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips. Sherlock stared wide eyed at John, never being in such a scene as he was at that moment. Sherlock had the nicety to clear his throat, rather indignantly, and John looked up to Sherlock's eyes.  
  
"Oh, god, I'm sorry." He started to rise when his damn leg seized up, something that hadn't happened in years, and he blamed it on the freezing temperatures of the ocean water. He cursed loudly, falling back onto Sherlock, who groaned out in return. John may be short, but it didn't mean that he wasn't heavy in weight. It was John's turn to grimace, waiting a minute or two for the seizing in his leg to lessen, before once again taking note of their position. "Sherlock I-"  
"It's fine." He cut him off, looking up at John.  
"No, that's not-"  
"John, It's all fine. Alright?" Sherlock said, trying to move out from underneath him. John took the hint and sat up, allowing Sherlock to sit up as well. He noticed that he was practically sitting in Sherlock's lap. John nodded his head in understanding. Sherlock looked down between them, a light blush forming on his cheeks. John noticed, eyes widening in horror. He nearly jumped away from Sherlock, as if the man himself had burnt him.  
"Look, I'm sorry. You're married to your work, I know, I don't-"  
"John."  
"-know what happened, I'm-"  
"John," Sherlock said a bit louder, trying to get his attention.  
"-sorry, it's just that I love you and I don't know what happened, I'm sorry-"  
"John, stop-" He paused. "Wait. Did.. did you just say you loved me?" He spoke quietly now, looking at John with wide eyes. John froze. Did he just say that outloud? He backed away, a nervous sweat starting to form. He said it outloud, outloud to him. No, no, no, no.  
  
"Yeah, I guess I did." John whispered. He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. He just ruined their friendship, he ruined Sherlock completely. The man doesn't like to feel emotions, surely he'd hate John for bringing them upon him? He decided it was time to leave. He stood up, bowing his head. He had found Sherlock. He could leave him now, rent out a different flat, somewhere way far away from 221B. God, would Sherlock even allow him to take his stuff out? Maybe John could move out to Manchester, that was a good enough distance. Or, maybe he'd leave the country in general, so Sherlock wouldn't happen upon him accidently during one of his cases. Maybe move to Greece, perhaps further Nepal. Or even over to Canada. Maybe he'd change his name, colour his hair.  
  
Sherlock stared wide eyed at the water in front of him. John loved him. John Hamish Watson loved him. He tried processing it. Over and over, until it seemed fake enough for him to not believe it. But John had said it, hadn't he? He had said it, and he had left. Wait, he left? He turned his head. He could see John walking away. No, he can't leave. Don't let him leave.  
  
"John? John!" He called, standing up. The man didn't turn. He began to walk over, but when John didn't stop, only quickened his pace, Sherlock broke into a run. "John, wait." He caught up and grabbed his wrist. John turned around on his own accord, looking up remorsefully at Sherlock. "Don't leave." Sherlock whispered.  
"Sherlock, I've just admitted to one of the largest faults in my life. I believe I should leave."  
"Why is it a fault, John? Tell me."  
"Because you're married to your work. You don't do sentiment, you aren't looking for relationships. You're not gay."  
"I don't do sentiment for other people." Sherlock corrected. He looked solemnly into John's eyes. "And, who's to say what sexuality I am?" He smirked. He was so out of character, so un-Sherlock like that John had to focus carefully to make sure he wasn't acting, to make sure he wasn't just tricking him, or trying to get a certain response out of him.  
"Why are you still here, with me? I just told you that I love you, doesn't that ruin your entire personality, our friendship?" John asked, looking down. He didn't want their friendship to end. He wanted to stay as Sherlock's friend, perhaps let it grow into something more. Why was he still here?  
  
"You are right, John. I don't want to be your friend." Sherlock replied. John looked up at him, wide eyes. Then he looked back down. He ruined it. Ruined everything. He knew it now, Sherlock would despise him. Hate him, every morsel of his being. He wouldn't want to be friends with someone who loves him, truly loves him. He'd hate John, and he ruined it all, just by a simple phrase of three words. He could feel the tears brimming in his eyes. He'd never see Sherlock again, never see the beautiful man again. "Stop thinking so loud, John." He raised his hand, tilting John's chin up. John fought for control over his own emotions. "Perhaps, I'd like something.. More than being friends." He gave John one of his rare, soft smiles. John froze again. Sherlock was.. Interested?  
  
"What are you talking about?" John asked, never breaking eye contact. He needed to make sure this moment was real, that Sherlock was really in front of him, with him.  
"Maybe I love you too." Sherlock whispered. That was the first time he had ever spoke those words and meant them. John's mouth fell open slightly.  
"You love me?"  
"Of course." Sherlock spoke softly, stroking John's chin. John grinned, raising his hands and cupping Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock smiled, closing his eyes to capture the feeling. He had been waiting to hear those three words from John for ages. When he married Mary, his heart was broken. John had moved on in the two years he had been away. But when she died, his heart lessened. Maybe he still had a chance, maybe he could help John.  
John stroked Sherlock's cheeks, bringing him back to reality. He opened his eyes.  
"May I?" He asked, to which Sherlock nodded. John smiled, leaning forward, pulling Sherlock down toward him gently. His own lips met soft ones. Sherlock's hands left John's face and wrapped around his waist, where as John moved one hand to card through Sherlock's soft curls.  
  
It was gentle, but the love between them added to make it a kiss for the ages. Tiny pecks turned into something more, but eventually John parted from him. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, the faintest smile on his soft lips. John leaned up and kissed the corners of his mouth, before placing a small chaste kiss back onto his lips.  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes, which had become watery. John was surprised, and he backed away. Was that all too much? Had he gone too far? Or had Sherlock changed his mind?  
"What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?" John questioned, worry filling his own eyes. He was relieved beyond everything when Sherlock shook his head.  
"Not at all. It was perfect." Sherlock said. John grinned and kissed him again, once again shock registering through his head as he felt warm tears between them. He parted. "God, I-I love you John, I love y-you, so much. I love you." Sherlock repeated over and over again. Sherlock was crying because he loved John. Sherlock loved John, and John loved Sherlock.  
  
John wiped away Sherlock's tears gently, kissing away the few that ran down to his chin. Sherlock had his eyes closed, cheeks pink, heart racing.  
"Sorry. I'm sorry, John, I-"  
"Shh." John cooed. He pulled Sherlock to sit down with him on the grass, which he did so without complaint. "It's okay to cry, love." John told him. He pulled the thinner man into his lap, stroking his curls. Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder, burying his face in the crook of John's neck. He breathed in his scent. He could get used to smelling that every day. John's own eyes became watery. Here he was, holding the man he loved most dear in his arms.  
  
It was eight-thirty. The sky had turned into a masterpiece. Soft hues of yellow, orange, pink and purple. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, and the consulting detective and his doctor sat on the beach, holding each other, watching it together. This was a sunset that Sherlock wouldn't be deleting.  
  
"Do you love me, John?" He had to know. Had to make sure it wasn't just a spur of the moment type of thing. John smiled down at his Sherlock.  
"Of course."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you liked this story, if you have any suggestions please leave them down below! I'd appreciate it, loads.


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